


Second Verse

by IdleLeaves



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: Aziraphale rescues Crowley after a summoning.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 143
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Second Verse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme prompt of "Any time period, any setting: Aziraphale is the one saving Crowley".

"Crowley? Crowley, look at me."

Crowley comes back to himself, slowly, at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. He raises his head from where he's curled on the floor, in the middle of a circle of chalk sigils studded by candles, and manages to pry one eye open, then the other. Aziraphale is kneeling in front of him, jacket unbuttoned and ascot askew.

Aziraphale's words are gentle, but in his eyes, behind the concern, there's still a remnant of the kind of cold, divine fury Crowley hasn't seen for two centuries - the last time he'd been in a similar mess. It hurts to look at Aziraphale, like this, and Crowley averts his gaze.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asks. The question is mostly rhetorical.

"'Course I'm not all right," Crowley answers anyhow, voice rough, and feels his split lip crack open and start to bleed again.

"How'd you get yourself into this, then?" Aziraphale says, like he always says, no matter the situation.

"Only demon in range, I suppose."

"In range," Aziraphale says flatly. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning," Crowley snaps, and immediately feels a touch of guilt - Aziraphale doesn't deserve his anger. "Meaning," he repeats, "those idiot would-be summoners couldn't manage to call anyone up from actual Hell, so they got whoever was closest."

"Shouldn't you have been able to just walk out of the circle?" Aziraphale asks.

"Please stop asking questions," Crowley says, and raises a hand to rub at his eyes. There's dried blood under his nails. "If I could, I've had done it by now."

"Let's fix that, then." Aziraphale stands and unceremoniously kicks the candles away from the circle, sending them skittering across the floor harder than is probably necessary. He smudges the chalk with his shoes before kneeling again. "Up you get," he says, and lays a hand on Crowley's back to help him sit.

As Aziraphale touches him, Crowley can't hold back a loud hiss of pain. Aziraphale recoils. "Let me see," he says, and carefully lifts the hem of Crowley's shirt. The burns are scattered across his back like constellations; they're small, but they're _everywhere_. It had hurt as they rubbed against the fabric of his shirt, and it hurts again, now, as they're exposed to damp basement air.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. "Is that..?"

"Holy water," Crowley confirms. "Diluted, at least, or maybe it wasn't blessed right. Who knows."

Crowley can handle Aziraphale's concern just fine - it's even a bit comforting, though he'd be loath to admit it - but what he can't handle is the distressed look that comes over Aziraphale's face. Nothing he can say will help, he knows, so he settles for trying to get to his feet, minding the throb in his ribs. He's almost certain that one, at least, is broken.

"Careful," Aziraphale says, and wraps an arm around Crowley's waist where the burns are fewest and lightest. He pulls Crowley's arm across his own shoulders, and together, they stand. "All right?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley nods.

Now that he's up, he can see his so-called summoners - all five of them - lying untidily on the floor, as if they'd dropped like stones exactly where they'd been standing. Crowley rather suspects they had. They're breathing, still, but none of them so much as twitch.

"Oh, they'll wake in a few hours," Aziraphale says, lightly but with a subtle hint of self-satisfaction.

"Let me guess," says Crowley, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. "After dreaming of whatever they like best?"

Aziraphale's eyes darken for a split second. "No," he says, and Crowley believes him.

"What did they want, anyhow?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley responds, intentionally, with a blank stare. "Humans don't usually summon demons for no reason," Aziraphale continues.

Crowley shakes his head, though it makes the room tilt. He's not keen on being responsible for a smiting, today. "Nothing important," he lies.

Aziraphale just looks at him for a moment, then his arm tightens around Crowley's waist. "Hold on," he says, but before Crowley can ask why there's a sickening snap and his head begins to spin again. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the smells are familiar - old books, bergamot, cocoa, and Aziraphale. The bookshop.

Aziraphale walks Crowley over to the back-room sofa and sits him down. He takes Crowley's chin in his hands and turns his head to each side, surveying the cuts and the tenderness that must be bruises. The pain is sharp and shallow as Aziraphale starts healing, beginning with the smallest abrasions and working up to the breaks in not one, but two ribs. Crowley tries to be still and just breathe as skin and bone knit back together.

Aziraphale dabs at the leftover blood with a flannel, and then all that's left are the burns on Crowley's back. He lies on his belly, shirtless, on the sofa and lets Aziraphale look. "I can't fix this," Aziraphale says, "but you know that already." Divine injuries take time to heal - and can't be sped along. "I can keep it from scarring, though, and relieve the pain... but it's going to hurt much worse at first, Crowley."

"I know," says Crowley. "Just... ngk, please." He braces himself, head pillowed on his arms, but even so he's not prepared for the white-hot flare of pain that sparks outward from Aziraphale's hands wherever he touches. Crowley flinches, but Aziraphale does not pull back.

The small sounds that are slipping out between Crowley's gasps are mortifying, and he clenches his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles crack. His eyes water, and he's inching closer and closer to the limit of his endurance when it's suddenly over, the agony ebbing in waves like the tide. He's left panting, with Aziraphale beside him, gently rubbing his shoulder.

"Breathe, my dear," Aziraphale says, and Crowley does his best. Aziraphale waits until he's calm before saying, "Stay here tonight. You're in no shape to go home." Crowley could protest - he's certainly in a better state than he had been when Aziraphale found him - but the shop is warm, and the sofa is comfortable, and it would be easier, perhaps, to just not move at all.

Crowley nods wordlessly; Aziraphale snaps his fingers and Crowley is dressed in blue cotton pajamas that are just a little too big. Aziraphale's. He rolls onto his side and stuffs a soft cushion under his head.

He's still not sure, after all that, how Aziraphale had found him - and he says so. "Oh," says Aziraphale evasively. "I have my ways." He smiles, and drapes a wool blanket over Crowley. "I'll make us some tea," he says, and disappears in the kitchenette before Crowley can say another word.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Second verse, same as the first / Little bit louder, little bit worse_. Because you know it's not the first time Aziraphale has come for Crowley the way Crowley always comes for him.


End file.
